- If I am lucky enough to catch a sunrise: Thank you.
- To angry me: Let it be.
- When I wake up: (to my puppy) Good Morning, Angel boy, how were your dreams? (And as he lays there next to me, tail wagging, I cannot be anything but grateful for the day.)
- On an intense uphill: (On repeat.) Just keep going.
- After a PR: Own it.
- Taking water from a race volunteer: (In my head) Pop! Get rid of it!
- When I've colossally F'd up: This isn't everything you are.
- Fatigued: Left, right, left, right.
- At the base of hill: Hut!
- On my mat: Om Namah Shivaya
- If I'm sick or injured: You are here, now, for a reason.
- Before I go to sleep: The same 16 word prayer I've said since childhood.
- Sprinting to the finish: Boom!
- When anxiety tries to shut me down: Just breathe. You got this. Just breathe into this.
- At the start line: These are your people.
- To my self-conscious side You are enough.
- During pre-race breakfast: More. Carbs. Please.
- If I fall short: Rally.
- Through pain: (Channeling positivity) I feel strong. I am fine. I am healthy.
- To dehydration in July: There is a water fountain in ___ miles. Suck it the F up.
- Just starting out on a long run: You have done this before; (and so) you will do it again; and again; and again.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
What I say:
Throwin' Rocks
"We was throwin' rocks in the river, counting ties on the track; thinking life could not be better and living in a shack; Feeling love for one another, deep down in our bones; standing by the water, throwing rocks and skipping stones."
...and on a January morning, it was dark and finally cold enough for my ninja mask to be pulled on tightly and tucked way down into my littlest hoodie, leaving only my eyes to brave the wind and the run set out before me. So cold, in fact, that a river froze as I ran next to it, trapping geese in little clusters of feathers, and embracing its new found stillness like a door closing on catastrophe. This run would be a little over 4 miles out, straight into the biting wind, and 4 miles back, flying on invisible, albeit gusty, wings. And I felt brave. It was a run planned out and driven by the exhilaration of perceived defiance of nature and completely empowering. My focus was broken, only momentarily, when I noticed the river next to me had completely stopped moving.
There I stood under a street light at 6:25AM with the world waking up behind me as commuters made their way down Kelly Drive buzzing with expectations of the first cold day. In front of me was frozen silence. Nothing moved but the flurries through the street light and it dawned on me that it had been a very long time since I'd thrown a rock at anything. With visions of failed attempts at rock skipping on the waves of the Jersey Shore flashing in my mind, my heart rate increased as I rapidly scanned the ground for something to smash some ice with. And so began my hunched over and dimly lit search for the perfect rock.
As the rock hit the top of its arch, I lost sight of it completely and then only caught back up with its dull thud of a landing. No dice on the smashing front but an uncontainable grin lit me up and carried me back another 4 miles to my beginning. It seems that just stopping to take a breath and do something truly ridiculous is all that's needed to reset. The brilliant orange and purple sunrise that led me into the finish line of this 8 mile wake-up, was but the icing on this once in a lifetime moment...
"Standing by the water, throwing rocks and skipping stones..."
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Dear Owner of the 1990's Green Honda Parked on 48th & Spruce,
...So that was me, dressed like a Navy Seal, standing under a street light on the corner of 48th and Spruce, drawing a heart in the fresh snow that painted your hood. I realize it was a big heart and sort of crooked and that it was a bit presumptuous of me to draw something so personal on a stranger's car. But, in my defense, it was 6:30AM on a Friday morning and it had been snowing for about an hour. I know this because my 12 mile run began just as the flurries decided to fall. The city was silent underneath the weight of this beautiful half inch of white peacefulness and I felt compelled to show you that there is still beauty in this world by drawing elementary shapes on your vehicle. And so, the heart incident happened.
By way of background, this run began on the coldest day of the year with snow flying in sideways and directly into my eyes. At the Mile 1 Beep, I thought of hot coffee, a hot shower, a hair dryer and warm clothes, and, most of all, turning around. At the Miles 3 and 4 Beeps, I was decidedly warmer and my face was basically numb from the wind and, you guessed it, snow. It wasn't until mile 5 that I found myself admiring all of the untouched snow amid the UPenn doctors and nurses, wearing their heavy coats and clogs (or are they crocks now?), making their way down the slippery sidewalks to their hospitals sitting at the base of the medical hill. I thought about drawing something somewhere the entire way up through campus and then, on my way back down, at about mile 7 of a 12 mile run, I saw your car sitting there.
Admittedly, my mitten was tracing the crooked heart before I could really think the thing through. Clearly, it wasn't centered or even on both sides. I am no artist. Just a runner that gets so high on running sometimes, it's hard to hold it all in. And, even at 32, there is something about running in the snow that brings the kid back to the surface for moments like this one, when you're just trying to get a very basic message of joy and hope across to a complete stranger and anyone who happened to pass it along their snowy walk to work.
My hope was simple: I wanted you to know that someone was up before you, playing her heart out in the snow, and loving beyond familiarity.
The snow stopped around mile 8 and the sun rose up so slowly and gracefully, I had the chance to notice each ray as it greeted the day. The sky was, at once, pink and purple and warm. This was the kind of morning when I am grateful to be alive and humbled to be a participant. And so, Honda Owner, I truly hope that you smiled when you saw your car that morning.
Love, Me
By way of background, this run began on the coldest day of the year with snow flying in sideways and directly into my eyes. At the Mile 1 Beep, I thought of hot coffee, a hot shower, a hair dryer and warm clothes, and, most of all, turning around. At the Miles 3 and 4 Beeps, I was decidedly warmer and my face was basically numb from the wind and, you guessed it, snow. It wasn't until mile 5 that I found myself admiring all of the untouched snow amid the UPenn doctors and nurses, wearing their heavy coats and clogs (or are they crocks now?), making their way down the slippery sidewalks to their hospitals sitting at the base of the medical hill. I thought about drawing something somewhere the entire way up through campus and then, on my way back down, at about mile 7 of a 12 mile run, I saw your car sitting there.
Admittedly, my mitten was tracing the crooked heart before I could really think the thing through. Clearly, it wasn't centered or even on both sides. I am no artist. Just a runner that gets so high on running sometimes, it's hard to hold it all in. And, even at 32, there is something about running in the snow that brings the kid back to the surface for moments like this one, when you're just trying to get a very basic message of joy and hope across to a complete stranger and anyone who happened to pass it along their snowy walk to work.
My hope was simple: I wanted you to know that someone was up before you, playing her heart out in the snow, and loving beyond familiarity.
The snow stopped around mile 8 and the sun rose up so slowly and gracefully, I had the chance to notice each ray as it greeted the day. The sky was, at once, pink and purple and warm. This was the kind of morning when I am grateful to be alive and humbled to be a participant. And so, Honda Owner, I truly hope that you smiled when you saw your car that morning.
Love, Me
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Surrounded.
"Surround yourself with the dreamers and doers, the believers and thinkers, but most of all, surround yourself with those who see greatness within you, even when you don't see it yourself."
I ran 10 miles so early in the morning, my face needed a ninja mask and my mind was cleared before my body warmed up. It was the kind of cold that leaves you to think of anything but your numb hands. The kind of frost that makes everything crunchy right down to individual blades of grass. Gone are the geese and rabbits; the squirrels are still nestled up in their tree houses; and the path is clear as all of the leaves have long fallen away. There is no sound but your inhale and exhale. There is no distraction.
After mile 1 woke me up, I spent the remaining 9 running around the Art Museum and UPenn, behind a giant power plant and through beautiful new developments down by the water. It was, as it usually is, a beautiful sunrise hitting the sides of Philly's skyline as I came back across the 30th Street Bridge, when I thought of my best friend hunkering down and getting ready to climb Kilimonjaro. At that moment, this event was approximately 22 hours off. As I ran the last of the cold miles back to a hot shower, I thought of what it took to get her to Africa this Christmas. With each step, I found myself in awe of the sheer bravery with which she lives life. There is no second guessing, no questioning, no what-ifs, no wavering and certainly no quitting. I am lucky to be her student. I am lucky to love her.
That day, I found myself so grateful for those 90 very cold minutes and 10 very cold miles. It gave me peace to reflect on the people that I've surrounded myself with and their stories. There are those that have lost everything and build themselves back up day by day; they are heroes for overcoming epic pain; they are fierce competitors and wily opponents; they support me blindly; they care when I fall and check in on me when I'm sick; they take care of my body, mind and spirit when I forget to; they are the ones that dream with me when I say "I think I want to run an Ultra;" they buy me sunscreen every summer and congratulate me every February 14th on another year lived well; they lead by example and not with words; they try cases with juries; they save lives; they run marathons after they've had strokes; they walk next to me when I can't remember how; they remind me that when we were kids, I was super uncoordinated; they show me sand and send me shells; they have babies; they show up, listen and love me no matter what; they teach me how to cook; they hurt when I hurt and laugh when I laugh; they share honestly and openly; they hold so many of my firsts; they remember; they recover and coach because they can't play; they write beautifully and often; and they inspire me to do more today, and be more tomorrow, than I thought I ever could.
And now that my brave little best friend has been on this mountain for approximately 36 hours and all of the toasts to her safety have been had, I want the world to know that "it is never too late to live the life you'd always imagined." Go ahead. Get on with it.
Don't forget to breathe.
I woke up Thursday morning and inhaled so deeply it was as if time stopped but for my lungs expanding. It was both brilliant and meditative in its simplicity. In that moment I felt healthy, apt and ready to embrace what followed. It is humbling and important, I think, to realize how lucky one is simply to be awake and alive. And so, on one of the first January mornings of 2013, an hour before my 6:30AM yoga class, I thanked god for giving me this day and exhaled, as deeply as I inhaled, my way out from under the covers and into a cold, dark morning with endless possibilities.
As a runner that's new to her thirties and new to the slower recoveries this decade has been rounding up, I've found yoga both restorative and necessary. It has become the trusted, best friend that's always ready to pick me up after running has undoubtedly chewed me up and spit me out over hills and bridges, steps and frozen ground, along foggy water and through old neighborhoods.
I look forward to the moment the door closes and locks out the noise and lights of the world. When my left ankle aches, I know I will take extra ankle turns and spend some time there. When my hips are tight, I know I will ease my way into the practice and take care with my joints. And when my lower back is screaming from the prior day's 10 mile hill workout, I know I will twist ever so slightly further into the dark, hot room and focus my mind on feeling strong. I will feel the subtle beat of the iPod and I will become steady and sure of myself. I will heal. I will wake. I will keep moving.
Over the last year, I've found that yoga is not a compliment to my running. Rather, it resides at the core of my stride. It strengthens and loosens what needs work and fixes what has been broken. When something gets intense, there is your breath. When there is a challenge of balance or focus, there is your breath. When you are folding deeper into your practice, there is your breath. And much like this central point of my yoga practice, my running has, too, become peripheral to breathing.
When my legs are heavy, I suck in as much cold air as I can and squeeze it out of my lungs in a hush. I am propelled forward. When my arms are sore or my head foggy, I lean into myself, tuck my tailbone and feel my core engage all of me. And I am moving, once again, in one strong flow. When my lower back tweaks at the end of a hill, I reach forward, unplug my shoulder blades and plug them back onto my back once again. Feeling new and powerful, I crush the descent.
Through it all, I do not forget to breathe. I take this with me, in my pocket, and make an effort to remind myself, whether I'm standing in line or running to catch a bus or running errands at lunchtime, that no matter what, no matter where, "Your whole life is here; there is no eleventh hour reprieve; so don't forget to breathe (Alexi Murdoch, Breathe)."
As a runner that's new to her thirties and new to the slower recoveries this decade has been rounding up, I've found yoga both restorative and necessary. It has become the trusted, best friend that's always ready to pick me up after running has undoubtedly chewed me up and spit me out over hills and bridges, steps and frozen ground, along foggy water and through old neighborhoods.
I look forward to the moment the door closes and locks out the noise and lights of the world. When my left ankle aches, I know I will take extra ankle turns and spend some time there. When my hips are tight, I know I will ease my way into the practice and take care with my joints. And when my lower back is screaming from the prior day's 10 mile hill workout, I know I will twist ever so slightly further into the dark, hot room and focus my mind on feeling strong. I will feel the subtle beat of the iPod and I will become steady and sure of myself. I will heal. I will wake. I will keep moving.
Over the last year, I've found that yoga is not a compliment to my running. Rather, it resides at the core of my stride. It strengthens and loosens what needs work and fixes what has been broken. When something gets intense, there is your breath. When there is a challenge of balance or focus, there is your breath. When you are folding deeper into your practice, there is your breath. And much like this central point of my yoga practice, my running has, too, become peripheral to breathing.
When my legs are heavy, I suck in as much cold air as I can and squeeze it out of my lungs in a hush. I am propelled forward. When my arms are sore or my head foggy, I lean into myself, tuck my tailbone and feel my core engage all of me. And I am moving, once again, in one strong flow. When my lower back tweaks at the end of a hill, I reach forward, unplug my shoulder blades and plug them back onto my back once again. Feeling new and powerful, I crush the descent.
Through it all, I do not forget to breathe. I take this with me, in my pocket, and make an effort to remind myself, whether I'm standing in line or running to catch a bus or running errands at lunchtime, that no matter what, no matter where, "Your whole life is here; there is no eleventh hour reprieve; so don't forget to breathe (Alexi Murdoch, Breathe)."
Friday, January 4, 2013
There's something about a bridge
I marked January 1, 2013 with what is familiar. It is a bridge run I've done for three years whether I'm seeking hills in a flat city, an escape a little bit above water-level, a view of Philly or distance from it. This run is exactly a 7 mile loop from my front door and is as consistent as they come. The inclines are slight and gradual. The declines exhilarating and reliable. The route lined by Front and Race Streets is packed with women doing the walk of shame, dogs out for jogs, war memorials, beautiful tall ships, trash, last night's empty bottles, a striking view of Camden, and enough alone time to focus on anything or nothing. It is one of those runs I keep safe for when I need it. Like on the first of the year or the first day of school or the first day of a new job, new challenge, new opportunity or just when I've reached a fork in the road and I need to be reminded of the path I traveled to get there.
2013, for me, will be more about the great "journey" everyone talks about. I've resolved only to be present in my life, my running, my relationships, my training and my practice. I expect that I will covet deep breaths and grateful moments and that relationships and interactions will take on a new meaning. I expect this to be difficult but worth it. And I expect to have to remind myself of why this is important.
When I get worked up or stressed into a tizzy, I will remind myself that being present and embracing a moment is important not only because it will slow me down, but because there are truly no guarantees. Not of tomorrow. Not of next week. And certainly not of forever. I simply refuse to realize that too late. I refuse to be the woman with such an epiphany at age 45. I'd much rather be the one that figured it out at 32 and lived.
This is what I said to myself as I reached the top of the Ben Franklin on Tuesday, about 3 miles into my 7 mile loop. It was cold, windy and my face hurt. I loved every second of it.
2013, for me, will be more about the great "journey" everyone talks about. I've resolved only to be present in my life, my running, my relationships, my training and my practice. I expect that I will covet deep breaths and grateful moments and that relationships and interactions will take on a new meaning. I expect this to be difficult but worth it. And I expect to have to remind myself of why this is important.
When I get worked up or stressed into a tizzy, I will remind myself that being present and embracing a moment is important not only because it will slow me down, but because there are truly no guarantees. Not of tomorrow. Not of next week. And certainly not of forever. I simply refuse to realize that too late. I refuse to be the woman with such an epiphany at age 45. I'd much rather be the one that figured it out at 32 and lived.
This is what I said to myself as I reached the top of the Ben Franklin on Tuesday, about 3 miles into my 7 mile loop. It was cold, windy and my face hurt. I loved every second of it.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
My (long) way back home.
I read The Secret two summers ago. You'd think I would have remembered that fixation is powerful stuff - good or evil, amazing or horrible - and, would have turned my Philly Marathon Eve thoughts from "please, God, don't let me hurt myself today...;" to something more positive like, "I am healthy and ready to run 26.2 miles." Oddly enough, my brain never got there and so, at 8AM on Saturday morning, I hit uneven pavement 15 feet from my house and snapped my left ankle so hard it bruised by the time I got both hands onto my stoop. With my face buried in my Cairne Terrier's (Charlie) white fur, I sobbed and let something out I didn't realize I'd been holding in all of those months.
And there I sat, Peas & Carrots wrapped around my ankle, oatmeal in hand, wondering if everything I'd been working for was just ruined and feeling utterly numb no matter the answer to the question. I simply came to find, as I sat there, that there was no "little fighter" left inside me. I was emotionally and physically exhausted and not at all convinced I was ready to run 26.2 miles the following day.
Throughout the day, my runner friends sent their well wishes and luck - each reminding me to breathe and "enjoy" every moment. But one of them actually said it: "Run Happy." And as I sat on a stool stirring my risotto, like the 5 year old I'd suddenly become, I realized it had been a very long time since running made me the slightest bit happy. Between the visits with nutritionists, speed workouts, 800's, hill workouts, 4AM wake-ups, dehydration, heart burn, 5 - 20+ mile runs in July and August, and the pure ache in my joints, there was no time for happiness. So I cried again.
Hours later I would fall asleep for about 6 hours, wake up at 3AM, hobble downstairs with Charlie for coffee, oatmeal and half a plain bagel, and say to him, "OK buddy, this is it. Our last long run." The house would be dark, quiet and cold. The task at hand, even more so as I realized I was truly not ready.
And with that cheery thought, I entered the Black Corral with the timidity of a shadow. I stood quietly with tall, skinny, serious looking strangers grouped together by prior achievement and present aspiration staring at the 3:35 Pacer Balloons wondering whether I belonged and deciding I didn't.
At 6:50AM, 10 minutes before the official start of the marathon and 12 minutes before my corral would eventually cross the start line, I decided I had to pee. Again. With that, I was pushing through the crowd to find myself in a small park with a lot of other nervous runners peeing behind small trees and playground equipment. Rushing back, feeling lost and confused, I reached my corral just as the Rocky song pushed us over the start line and into the marathon without so much as a "Good Morning."
Luckily, adrenalin took over and I felt no pain in those first 8 miles in 64 minutes. I felt nothing. No excitement. No joy. No fear. Nothing. Pain and nausea ultimately set in and the next 16 miles were a blur of my screaming family, strangers, signs, music, distress, self-doubt, and the ultimate realization that I was in the middle of something I could not smile my way out of.
At mile 18, I cried as I passed my dad and told myself there was no stopping beyond that point. No more choice. No more wavering. I'd won a few battles but not yet the war. What kept me going in those last 8.2 miles was not the crowd or the other runners; it wasn't the music or the thought of seeing my family at the finish line; it wasn't even the party waiting back home. It was the ridiculous amount of calories and carbs I'd consumed; how unhealthy I felt in that moment; and how far I'd fallen out of love with running. It was in this very basic struggle that I found my answer.
I am not - nor will I ever be - a Boston Qualifier. It is not for lack of trying or training and it is not because I've abandoned my raw hope for greater things. It is simply because I don't want to be one. Somewhere between not quitting at mile 13 and not quitting at mile 18, I started to notice all of the things I'd been missing when I started running faster in 2012:
And then...the Girard Avenue Bridge took me by surprise. Out of nowhere, it rose up and gave me the strength to keep going hard until the end. This structure has been the symbol of every end to every hard workout I've had in the last 3 years. Passing under it during my second Philadelphia Marathon was a revelation both physically and mentally. Left behind would be the tunnel vision, training schedule, pain, angst and competition. Ahead would be home. A place where running settles me down and reminds me that "if you get lost, you can always be found."
More than a month after this experience and rounding out an 1800+ mile year, I can say I'm ready to start fresh and focus back on the journey, wherever it may take me. But my bones will remind me that "as we roll down this unfamiliar road; and although this wave is stringing us along; just know you're not alone; 'Cause I'm going to make this place your home."
And there I sat, Peas & Carrots wrapped around my ankle, oatmeal in hand, wondering if everything I'd been working for was just ruined and feeling utterly numb no matter the answer to the question. I simply came to find, as I sat there, that there was no "little fighter" left inside me. I was emotionally and physically exhausted and not at all convinced I was ready to run 26.2 miles the following day.
Throughout the day, my runner friends sent their well wishes and luck - each reminding me to breathe and "enjoy" every moment. But one of them actually said it: "Run Happy." And as I sat on a stool stirring my risotto, like the 5 year old I'd suddenly become, I realized it had been a very long time since running made me the slightest bit happy. Between the visits with nutritionists, speed workouts, 800's, hill workouts, 4AM wake-ups, dehydration, heart burn, 5 - 20+ mile runs in July and August, and the pure ache in my joints, there was no time for happiness. So I cried again.
Hours later I would fall asleep for about 6 hours, wake up at 3AM, hobble downstairs with Charlie for coffee, oatmeal and half a plain bagel, and say to him, "OK buddy, this is it. Our last long run." The house would be dark, quiet and cold. The task at hand, even more so as I realized I was truly not ready.
And with that cheery thought, I entered the Black Corral with the timidity of a shadow. I stood quietly with tall, skinny, serious looking strangers grouped together by prior achievement and present aspiration staring at the 3:35 Pacer Balloons wondering whether I belonged and deciding I didn't.
At 6:50AM, 10 minutes before the official start of the marathon and 12 minutes before my corral would eventually cross the start line, I decided I had to pee. Again. With that, I was pushing through the crowd to find myself in a small park with a lot of other nervous runners peeing behind small trees and playground equipment. Rushing back, feeling lost and confused, I reached my corral just as the Rocky song pushed us over the start line and into the marathon without so much as a "Good Morning."
Luckily, adrenalin took over and I felt no pain in those first 8 miles in 64 minutes. I felt nothing. No excitement. No joy. No fear. Nothing. Pain and nausea ultimately set in and the next 16 miles were a blur of my screaming family, strangers, signs, music, distress, self-doubt, and the ultimate realization that I was in the middle of something I could not smile my way out of.
At mile 18, I cried as I passed my dad and told myself there was no stopping beyond that point. No more choice. No more wavering. I'd won a few battles but not yet the war. What kept me going in those last 8.2 miles was not the crowd or the other runners; it wasn't the music or the thought of seeing my family at the finish line; it wasn't even the party waiting back home. It was the ridiculous amount of calories and carbs I'd consumed; how unhealthy I felt in that moment; and how far I'd fallen out of love with running. It was in this very basic struggle that I found my answer.
I am not - nor will I ever be - a Boston Qualifier. It is not for lack of trying or training and it is not because I've abandoned my raw hope for greater things. It is simply because I don't want to be one. Somewhere between not quitting at mile 13 and not quitting at mile 18, I started to notice all of the things I'd been missing when I started running faster in 2012:
- The way wet running shoes squeak in a chorus of biting notes;
- What numb hands feel like;
- Expectant looks on the face of a crowd;
- Hunger;
- The subtle incline just past Boathouse Row;
- The average age of a volunteer: 16;
- "Worst Parade Ever" signs;
- The way runners thanked volunteers along the way;
- A flock of geese, 30 strong, lounging by the water;
- The overall embrace of NYC Marathoners;
- Leaves crunching underfoot;
- The smell of a fireplace somewhere off in Strawberry Mansion;
- The sting of the cold air; and
- The satisfaction of a deep, cool inhale.
And then...the Girard Avenue Bridge took me by surprise. Out of nowhere, it rose up and gave me the strength to keep going hard until the end. This structure has been the symbol of every end to every hard workout I've had in the last 3 years. Passing under it during my second Philadelphia Marathon was a revelation both physically and mentally. Left behind would be the tunnel vision, training schedule, pain, angst and competition. Ahead would be home. A place where running settles me down and reminds me that "if you get lost, you can always be found."
More than a month after this experience and rounding out an 1800+ mile year, I can say I'm ready to start fresh and focus back on the journey, wherever it may take me. But my bones will remind me that "as we roll down this unfamiliar road; and although this wave is stringing us along; just know you're not alone; 'Cause I'm going to make this place your home."
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